


The Myriad Times Lazarus has Risen

by lostinfictives



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, If Supernatural (TV) Were on HBO, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28550538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinfictives/pseuds/lostinfictives
Summary: An Angel falls and rebels, and every time just like clockwork, Lazarus rises.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 5





	The Myriad Times Lazarus has Risen

Dean screams himself hoarse. The sounds of _No, I can't,_ and _I won't_ echo from every fiery corner of the pit. 

The demon, Alastair, binds him back into chains upon his refusal to brand sinful souls the burning mark of the devil's knife over and over again, deeper and deeper until the souls become voiceless, limbless.

Dean has begun to get used to it—to no rusty metals bruising his wrists and ankles, to no fires ablaze against his bare back, to no knives tearing through his flesh until his bones meet the sharp blades, no endless nightmares of what-ifs and regrets, no more screaming himself hoarse. Instead, there are only the souls' pleas for his mercy as he does the torturing himself, holding the daggers firmly in his palms, carving the broken souls into much more fathomless brokenness.

He likes it. It makes him feel powerful, more in control. In a place of immorality and agony, he feels invincible, and somehow, in the very back of his darkened consciousness, Dean still knows he's gone fucked up—even more fucked than when he was a living mortal and his sole purpose was to protect his little brother and the world from all evil. Nothing else mattered. He just kept swinging. If he'd go down, then he'd go down. He didn't matter.

This isn't Dean. This is his fear and weakness manipulating his limbs into action. This isn't him.

And so, he drops the knife, and for the first time, he looks into the tormented souls' empty gazes, then Dean drops the dagger from his other hand.

A demonic roar replaces the souls' cries. Alastair is furious, screaming expletives and bearing his crooked, rotten teeth to Dean's face, daunting and taunting. But Dean sets his foot down.

Alastair drags him back into the web of chains, the metal hot against his skin, the fire below burning his wounds raw. And for a split second, he is weak again, but then, he thinks of Sam, Bobby, the people they saved, the friends they met along the road, and Dean's fear dissipates.

He sets his foot down.

And it happens.

A flash.

There is a flash of light. It is so quick and blinding that the pit looks even darker with the sudden lack of it. Then it happens again. A flash. Gone. It's dark. Then again. A flash. Gone. It's dark.

Then suddenly, the light gets contained, even and unceasing. It illuminates the whole place white as though purifying hell of all transgressions.

Dean closes his eyes. The light sips through his eyelids, burning through his skull, and then he hears it. At first, it is nothing but a glass-shattering noise, completely incoherent, then it rises above the hysteria—a hollow, subdued voice that utters, "Keep your eyes closed, righteous man. You will be raised, and the world will be pure again."

Dean startles and bats his eyes open for a second, his emeralds peaking at the divine. Then the order sinks into his clouded mind, and he closes his eyes, pressing his upper and lower lashes tight together as though to cover up his disobedience.

Whatever life he has left rampages as it pulses through the entirety of his being. Dean has seen enough, and in years, he's never felt this alive. The voice, the light. The rings, the eyes. The wings.

It glows white with a hint of cerulean in its center, blinding and striking. Its rings orbit around each other fast and in frantic trajectory. Its myriad eyes blink, looking in every possible direction, alert and grounded at the same time. Its wings are steady, suspended high above the ground, dark and shadowy in contrast with its bright and incandescent core.

 _It is beautiful_ , Dean decides, wanting to hold onto the stunning vision, pushing every thought aside that's saying he might only be delirious.

Then he feels it, warm but not burning, violent as it breaks every chain around his body but gentle as a feathery touch graces his left arm, warming up his flesh as though to imprint a mark. 

_This is supposed to hurt_ , Dean thinks. But it doesn't. The touch almost feels comforting as it slowly pulls him away from the screaming solicitations and into salvation. And he lets it. He's never been more at ease in losing control.

Thin air rushes through his lungs, and he gasps for more. His heart beats, pulsing blood through his veins. He hears his own breathing. He tastes his own mouth—bitter and dry. He opens his eyes. Darkness envelops his whole body. And when his hands attempt to grab into the void, they don't reach far.

He scratches against the wood. He pushes. He scratches and pushes until a hole gets punched into the plywood, and dirt rains over his chest. He digs, and he crawls his way up the Earth's surface. He pushes his body off the ground, feeling the sun shining against his face, a light Illinois breeze dancing through his hair. He stands and steadies himself.

September 18, 2008—the great news has been delivered by the seraph, Castiel, and it fills heaven like a continuous ringing sound, clear as a bell, "Dean Winchester is saved."

Lazarus has risen.


End file.
